


To Yield or Not to Yield

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-07
Updated: 2005-01-07
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:10:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15105854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Jed Bartlet faces a truly unique ultimatum - from an intruder.





	To Yield or Not to Yield

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**To Yield or Not to Yield**

**by: SheilaVR**  


**Category(s):** General (crisis)  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Disclaimer:** No way could I have ever come up with such a brilliant creation entirely on my own. *sigh*  
**Summary:** Jed Bartlet faces a truly unique ultimatum - from an intruder.  
**Author's Note:** Kudos to Anne for spawning this plot bunny, and to Kathleen for helping chase it down. 

***** 

You'd never be able to pull this off in the White House; that place is a vault. Every worker, no matter how low on the totem pole, must be screened to the nth degree. But here? A first-class yet otherwise unremarkable hotel in Portland, where it's just not designed to be so air-tight? When the number one guest is staying less than twenty-four hours? Security can't possibly be as strict. 

As you exit the elevator and move down the richly-appointed corridor, pushing the innocuous kitchen trolley, you tell yourself to relax. You've passed all the extra VIP clearances, cranked way up for this very special visit; the food has been carefully prepared and inspected, again by an imported crew for this very special visit; the cart is one of dozens always on site, a fixture so common that no one's given it a single thought even on this very special visit. Nothing to worry about. You're not drawing any suspicious looks at all. The dark-suited human statues on every side have absolutely no reason to wonder about a thing. They just check your butler's uniform and the laminated pass around your neck, and then pretend to ignore you. 

If they only knew... 

At last you reach the final door. The door to *his* room. More dark suits flank it on both sides, and more still patrol the halls. Again, they seem content with your certified legitimacy. Your confidence rises. If *they* don't suspect, no one will. You brace yourself for the great moment, and knock on the door. 

"Yeah!" Such a simple word, and so overused, yet brisk and clear, granting permission to enter. The voice itself, even through the wood, is impossible to mistake. The moment is upon you; you can't help but swallow nervously. Do the dark suits notice? But then, wouldn't any normal person feel a bit on edge at the opportunity to meet *him?* 

Of course, your motive is a bit different than most... 

You open the door. The sitting-room is spacious by your standards, although it's probably way less luxurious than the White House itself. Several lamps are switched on against the fast-approaching nightfall, making this scene even cozier. The sunset's last rays tint the floor-to-ceiling windows on the opposite wall with a blush of pink. 

And there he is. Alone. Seated in a high-back armchair. Reading some kind of report. Pen in his hand, eyeglasses balanced on his nose, papers stacked on his knee. Suit jacket off, tie discarded, white shirt collar open a bit. Looking astonishingly ordinary. 

The President of the United States. 

You almost freeze. *It really is him.* After all this time, all this planning - *finally...* 

His chair is angled about thirty degrees towards your left. He glances up only once. "Oh. Thanks." He doesn't rise, treating you just like the servant you're supposed to be. 

Which is how you *want* to be treated. That is, for another moment or two... 

No one else is here with him. No one else is expected, either. Just like the schedule said. Just the way you want it. 

You nudge the door closed behind you, making sure it clicks shut. Anyone from room service would do that before they set up the meal, right? Who likes to eat with an audience? You then push the cart a bit to one side, on a straight line with his chair, like you're just going to leave it there for whenever he feels like sitting down to a private, lonely supper... 

He already seems to have forgotten you're here, paging through whatever news is of national importance tonight. He's probably used to faceless employees fussing around in the background (or the foreground, like you are) no matter where he goes. 

*Now.* Exactly as you rehearsed. The revolver is still taped securely in place under the cart's lowest surface, yet it easily comes free into your hand. You let the adhesive strips fall away, lift the gun to chest height, and take dead aim. 

He doesn't even notice. He has no reason - he thinks - not to trust you. You could fire right now and he'd never know what hit him. Literally. 

But no - you have much bigger plans in mind. First you need to get his undivided attention. And you know one guaranteed way to accomplish that: cock the trigger. 

The metallic *click-CLICK* sounds amazingly loud in this quiet room. 

Instantly his head yanks this way and his eyes flash upward. They're fastened on you. And on the gun, which is fastened on *him.* 

*At last.* You just have to smile. He's alone, no more than fifteen feet away, and utterly in your power. 

And he knows it. 

And yet, after that first jerk, he isn't moving at all. His brows and his mouth are perfectly straight lines. The eyeglass lenses reflect the lamplight, gleaming like silver medallions. His eyes are staring over the metal rims: blue and cold and sharp. 

What do those eyes *show?* 

Disbelief? Yes, definitely. 

Fear? Some, at least. Who *wouldn't* feel fear in a moment like this? 

Anger? For sure. 

But he's still not moving. 

You don't move either, waiting for him to break. To say *something.* You're the one with the gun. You have the advantage. You can *afford* to wait. 

He doesn't move. You don't move. The stillness is almost paralyzing. 

Why *doesn't* he move? This is so strange. He's just... *watching* you. 

Is he even breathing? In the sheer silence you honestly don't think so. By now *you* sure aren't; those eyes seem to be preventing *you* from moving either. Your smile of superiority is slipping; you can feel it. 

This is not part of the plan. 

Then, at last, he exhales. You try to decipher its exact note. Is he releasing tension? Resigning himself to the inevitable? Or bracing for combat? 

"Well, so much for the vaunted security of this four-star stopover." 

He isn't really talking to *you;* that was a comment to himself. It's natural enough; you really caught him off-guard. You beat the best bodyguards around. Just your being here is proof of how good you are, how well you planned. 

And he can't do a thing about it. 

Interesting - even though he must know he's trapped, his voice doesn't waver. 

He's still motionless, still staring very hard at you. "You realize that if you pull that trigger, whether you kill me or not, you won't live two seconds longer. Those guys standing right outside are there for a *few* reasons." 

The papers don't shake in his hand, either. Talk about steady. 

Or maybe he's just too frozen, too tense, to move a muscle. That's more probable. 

You're so busy watching him for signs of... anything... that you need an extra moment of resumed quiet to remember that he's expecting a reply. 

"So?" It's not important. They're outside. You're inside, with him. He has no escape. "They can't get in here fast enough to stop me." 

This time he blinks. Probably still wondering if what he sees is real - or maybe if what he just *heard* was real. 

Except for that blink, and that earlier exhalation, he's holding very still. You're reminded of a bird under a snake's eye - too petrified to move. No; that's not the right analogy here. He doesn't look terrified. He's just being very careful not to provoke you. 

"Well, I'm glad we're both so eager to live through this. I feel much better." 

He's obviously not so off-balance or unnerved that he's stopped thinking; you can almost hear the wheels grind along. He's actually making jokes, probably in an effort to throw you off. Then again, he's a guy who just naturally fights with words. 

Words aren't worth much against a loaded weapon. You don't say anything this time. You're the one in control, not him. He can't pretend to not know that. 

Looks like he's going to try, though. "I expect I won't like the answer, but I'll ask the question anyway. What do you want?" 

*This* is what you've been waiting for. You have to clamp down on your voice, to keep it from shaking, to make it project exactly the way you want. To savor the rush of sheer power. To do this moment full justice. 

"Kneel." 

Pause. 

Then he slowly lowers his papers and removes his glasses. "Excuse me?" 

You don't mind repeating it - not at all. "I want you to kneel." 

Another pause, longer this time. 

"Why?" His eyes are narrowed and intense. 

"Because I said so." He doesn't need to know any more than that. 

Apparently he doesn't agree with you. "Again, why?" 

You take another moment, another deep breath, just to prove how serious you are. These words need to be savored as well. "Because if you don't - you will die." 

Yet another pause, longer still. 

"That's it?" Yes, the disbelief is clear now. 

You smile again, never more certain of anything in your life. "That's it." 

He turns this totally unexpected demand over in his mind. He has to be at least a little on the astonished side. "So if I comply, you let me live. If I don't... you shoot." 

You nod. "Simple as that. Decide." 

It won't take him long to obey. You've plotted out this scene so many times from start to finish that you know exactly what's coming next. His fear of dying would have spiked the moment he saw your gun; by now it's smothering all else. He won't have any thought to spare for his image, for amazement or even anger. In one more heartbeat he's going to crumple, slide out of that chair and fall on his knees. He's going to acknowledge your complete power over him, and beg you for his life. 

Who wouldn't? What other choice is there? 

He grins. *Grins!* And he doesn't give the first indication of getting up, of obeying you. "Oh, there's nothing simple about it at all." 

"Huh?" You try to mask your sudden surprise. "How could it possibly be any easier? Would you *rather* die?" 

"Of course not." His response is prompt, yet not frightened. "But in my job, nothing is ever easy. Or simple." 

You're frowning now. "I don't care about your job." 

His grin has faded as well, although he's not exactly frowning back. "Forgive me if I take that with a grain of salt." 

He's hardly shifted an inch yet, and he's keeping his voice low, cautious. Clearly he doesn't want to comply... but he doesn't want to risk antagonizing you, either. That knowledge only sweetens the moment. Even if he doesn't show it, he *has* to be afraid - or at the very least apprehensive - of what you might do to him. 

"Whatever. You still have to choose. Fast." 

"Not *too* fast. This decision will be hard enough without a time limit on top of it." 

This is getting confusing. You hide that fact under a bit more brusqueness. "You don't set the time limit. I do." 

"Hey, you popped the question." He looks down at the papers, pen and eyeglasses in his lap, then at the end-table beside his chair. Then, slowly, he shifts sideways just enough to set the report on top of the table, and the glasses and the pen on top of the report. Each motion is smooth and careful, no doubt hoping that you won't jump to conclusions. "If you want a decent answer, you'd better give me a fair chance to think about it." 

For a man poised before his executioner, he's not talking much sense. You've heard some people praise him as highly intelligent, and others curse him for a fool. You used to lean towards the former, but you're starting to reassess that impression now. "*What* is there to think about? Kneel, or die. Period." 

"On the contrary, we're just getting started." He settles back into his chair, arms on the armrests, as though making himself comfortable for a long chat. He's not following the script. "For instance, what guarantee do I have that you won't shoot anyway?" 

You break into a relieved smirk. The renewed sensation of power is intoxicating. "You'll just have to take my word for it." Like he has any alternative. 

"Your word, huh? With no witnesses and nothing in writing?" 

As if you're going to allow anyone else in to see this, or stop everything to sign a paper! Who does he think he's fooling? 

"I *can* guarantee that you will die if you don't obey me." 

He considers this. "A chance, against a certainty. Fair point." 

Good; he's finally seen the light. For a reputedly smart man and an obviously sharp politician, he took way too long to get it. Of course, staring down the bore of a gun might be a good enough reason for not thinking too clearly. 

"And if I do kneel, what then? What happens next? You walk out of here, and I go back to work, and both of us pretend this never happened?" 

You can't believe he's still talking about it when he has *no* option but to give in. Does the man have no brain at all? 

On the other hand, he does seem interested in your reply. 

You didn't expect *any* debate over this issue. Not about what happens before; not about what could happen after. Who's loony enough to argue with a bullet? Not even a politician could be *that* dense. The only thing you can think to do is shrug. 

He tilts his head a bit, as if trying to study you from a new angle. "By the way, you can relax. I'm not going to make any sudden moves here. If I put up a fight, I risk a crippling shot to the body and perhaps a lingering death, rather than a relatively painless shot to the head and an instantaneous death. I've stopped lead before, in case you didn't know, and I have no wish to repeat the experience." 

You hadn't forgotten that he knows firsthand what being shot is like. In fact, you were counting on that ugly memory to bring him around even faster. Why isn't it working? 

Wait - he grimaced just a bit. Probably wishing he hadn't been quite that graphic, in case it gives you ideas. A gut shot is a *very* nasty way to die. He's damned lucky he pulled through the first time. It can make a head shot almost welcome by comparison. 

In any event, this banter needs to move on. You seize upon his last phrase. "I know the perfect way to avoid a repetition. All you have to do is kneel. Get it over with." 

"What's the rush, buddy?" Strange: the fact that he's still under the gun doesn't seem to faze him. Of course he must be thinking very hard, trying to figure a way out of this. "Isn't a dying man usually granted a last request? What about a man that might be *about* to die? *My* request is very simple: for a little more time." 

You see through that one at once. "You're stalling." 

He looks almost *too* innocent - but his voice still doesn't change. "Only in part. I'm working on the assumption that *you* want to live to tell about this. The only way that's likely to happen is if I obey you. And the only way I'm going to do *that* is if I have a *very* good reason." 

He sounds totally reasonable - as if this was just any other casual conversation. 

You waggle your gun. "*This* isn't a good enough reason?" 

"Not in itself. But there might be others. We just need to identify them." 

His casual attitude is starting to annoy you. "You're *definitely* trying to stall, and it's *not* going to work -" 

He raises one hand, palm out in a pacifying gesture. "Take it easy! A minute or so can't be *that* critical, can it? I'm sure you didn't have any other events planned for tonight." 

"No..." The admission is out before you realize it. 

"Good. Neither do I. And I'm not about to call for help." He hooks a thumb towards the closed door, though his vision never shifts from you. "I agree: even the Secret Service couldn't get in here before you could pull off at least one shot. The same thing goes for visitors or phone calls: I can raise the alarm and get *you* nailed, but it won't do me any good in the end. The truth of the matter is, so long as you're in this room and have me in your sights, you're safe." 

"Uh-huh. And how do I know you're *not* stalling, so you *can* get the alarm out?" You're too fast for any tricks. 

He really grins now. "I guess you'll just have to take my word for it." 

Sneaky, throwing your own words back at you. No question about his brains, all right. You'd better watch him even closer. 

"Or you can just refuse to answer the phone," you point out sensibly, killing that argument. "I do it all the time." 

He mutters something that sounds like, "Lucky guy," but doesn't pursue it. "I'm not expecting anybody to visit *or* call. We're supposed to be locked down for the night; my curfew is in full effect." 

He has a curfew? 

Hm; the more you think about it, the more sense it makes that he does. Name one other person who's as hemmed in by schedules *or* security. 

"So," he continues easily, "that gives you and me lots of time to discuss this." 

You know better than to believe *that.* "Oh, yeah? And nobody will think something's strange about you having dinner with the guy who brought up the tray?" There - you've got him this time. 

He shrugs it right off. "Nah, they'll be glad it's *you* and not *them.* These days hardly anyone appreciates the value of trivia as a mental exercise." 

Okay, you have to admit he has a point there. You joined the hotel staff some weeks back, as soon as you heard he was coming to town and staying here. Of course your fellow employees were talking about little else; that gave you plenty of time to overhear their comments about this man's more peculiar habits. 

You take a moment to analyze the conversation so far. You hadn't expected a conversation at all, but you discover now that you don't really mind it. He's turning out to be a worthy opponent - not only in social status, but in wits. Well, you can handle the challenge. You're in charge; why not rub it in a bit more? 

He raises a speculative eyebrow. Did he just pick up some vibe that you've decided to let him talk? "And since this is going to take another moment or two, maybe you'd like to take a moment yourself and lower that hammer *gently?*" 

His tone is perfectly reasonable: a suggestion, not an order. Still, you can read the subtle strain on his face, no matter how he tries to hide it. He knows more than a little about weapons, and he fears them. Rightly so. 

You can also agree with his logic; a revolver is always unstable with the hammer cocked. Besides, you can cock it again and fire inside of a heartbeat. He's essentially trapped in his chair, with no hope of dodging a shot. And, as you have already demonstrated, that sound is a great attention-getter. It might come in handy again very soon. 

Then too, there's something inside of you that really does want to hear him out. Make this delicious moment last a bit longer. It's become sort of a chess match between you, a test of strategy. You can afford to play with him. Give him some false hope; let him *try* to wiggle out of it. Your victory will be even more glorious when he finally realizes that he can't. 

You ease the hammer down from its hair-trigger readiness, but your thumb stays on top and the muzzle stays on target. Just because you're enjoying this one-sided interaction, with all the odds stacked in your favor and him completely in your power, doesn't mean you trust him not to search for some way to get the drop on you. 

"Thanks." He doesn't relax - he can't *possibly* relax - but perhaps that was a slightly longer breath, and his grin reappears. 

Interesting: he never actually smiles, never shows teeth. What, is he comparing you in his mind to an angry dog or some other ferocious animal? Doesn't want to come across as overtly challenging? The image isn't entirely uncomplimentary: it means he sees you as dangerous. Your own smile is pure triumph, and you hope it looks downright wolfish. 

No flicker of nervousness now. He's wearing that innocent little-boy look again. "So! We've got a decision to make. Let's consider it from all angles." 

You still don't grasp why he needs to examine this decision at all. There's an audible hint of - *eagerness* in his voice. As though he *wants* to debate. As though, at least for this moment, he's completely forgotten about the danger he's in. 

Best you bring him back down to earth. "Not much to consider. If you kneel, you live." 

"I'm telling you, it's not that cut and dried. I really do need a bit more context." He's still showing no *obvious* sign of concern that there's a firearm aimed at his head. "And I know a great place to start: motive. Why are you doing this?" 

"It doesn't *matter.*" Well, it does - but he doesn't need to know that. Not yet. 

"It has to. It would almost certainly make my decision a lot easier." 

"It would?" This sounds worth listening to. "How?" 

"Well, for starters, are you after me, or are you after my office?" 

"What are you talking about? I can't kill the office. But I *can* kill *you.*" 

He doesn't waste his breath contesting that obvious fact. "Oh, my office will play a role in this for sure. Who I am and what I do are fully integrated. You can't separate them. Everything I say these days has political implications." 

"I'm not doing this for *politics.*" Which is true. 

"Yeah, I got that impression. Otherwise you'd have launched into a political rant before this. See? We've eliminated one possibility already." He sounds just like a teacher in the classroom, steering the lesson along. "Does this mean you have something against *me?* Something personal?" 

You shake your head. "How can it be personal? We've never met before." 

He chuckles shortly - more like a snort. "Believe me, man, that is *not* a requirement. I make big decisions that affect a lot of other people all the time. They may not see themselves as political either, but many of them hate me anyway. How about it: have I done something recently that pissed you off?" 

You shake your head again, warily. Where's he going with this? 

He actually looks relieved. "Glad to hear it. I don't make those decisions because I *like* to get people mad at me; unfortunately, that's just how it works out sometimes. Despite my best efforts to be fair to everyone in all things, somebody is guaranteed to take offence." His face twitches, probably in regret of that truth. 

Speaking of truth: he can't forget for *any* length of time that he's staring down the throat of a thirty-eight. 

"All right; you're not after me personally. You're not after me politically, either. What else? Some people will go to considerable lengths to become famous, any way they can." 

You're losing patience. "I don't care about *that,* either." Also true. 

He blinks. "No? Well, then, you're even smarter than I thought. A lot of people who say they want fame don't know what they're getting into, and all too often they regret it afterwards. I could tell you stories..." He stares off into the distance for a moment, then swings back on topic. "You know, you're really not giving me much to go on here. After all, you can't be doing this for *no* reason, right? Not many folks are that -" 

You *know* where he's going next. Your anger rises in a tidal wave. "*Don't* say it! If you *dare* call me crazy, I swear I'll shoot you right now!" You take two or three furious steps closer, until you're looming over him. You wouldn't have missed before; now it's a question of whether the bullet will lodge in his skull or rip straight through his head. 

He raises both hands to shoulder level at once in capitulation. "Wouldn't dream of it. Hey, you got past the Secret Service. That's no mean accomplishment. It takes either an extremely lucky mind, or a very clever one." 

You draw yourself up with smug pride. Luck has nothing to do with it. It was sheer brilliance on your part. 

"Besides, a nutcase - or someone after fame, or political revenge, or *personal* revenge - would most likely have walked in and fired at once. Instead, here we are talking quite rationally about this." He cracks another grin. "That gets *my* vote." 

His arms return to the armrests - but the rest of him doesn't shift. The tension is still there, just under the surface. He's trying very hard to look like he thinks he's not actually at risk. Most likely he hopes that if he can convince you he's not afraid, then he'll feel he's gained an advantage for himself. You want to sneer at this hopeless attempt. 

"Now if you *were* unbalanced," he resumes amiably enough, "I'd probably give in to your demand fairly quickly. A sick mind deserves compassion. I couldn't trust a truly deranged person to either think or act logically, so I'd humor him instead." 

Your rage dies down, a little. You *aren't* crazy, and you're glad that he doesn't think of you that way, even if it would have ended this contest a lot sooner. 

Just the same, you have a warning to impart. "I wouldn't suggest you try." 

"Sound advice. A man can sometimes have an excellent reason for risking his life; that doesn't automatically make him insane." 

"Like you're doing now, huh?" You feel an even bigger burst of pride; that was inspired! Let him try to top *that* line! 

He nods, acknowledging your score. "Pretty close... but not quite the same. I'm trying to get you to help me decide just how *much* I should risk." 

You have to work through that reasoning somewhat more slowly. "I don't get why you think you need *any* help. You've got two choices: live, or die. All or nothing." 

"And I want to make an *informed* choice. That's not something you can do in an instant. The stakes are pretty high. We have to examine all the different variables." 

"Variables?" You're feeling confused again - which also makes you annoyed. It's not enough that just a simple action will save his life, but he really needs to know *why?* 

"Lots of 'em. Let's start with my job." 

"I told you I don't care -" 

"But I do care. *Everything* I do can have huge repercussions for the entire country. I have to follow a long list of rules laid out by the Constitution. I have to set an example for the nation, and for the world. And one of those rules, one of those conditions... is that we do not negotiate with terrorists." 

You stare at him. "I'm *not* a terrorist!" 

He's sitting *very* still again, no doubt wishing he hadn't said that. Oh, yeah, you can feel the tension. 

"Others might not agree with you." Even after this fresh display of your anger, he doesn't abandon the issue. His voice is surprisingly firm. "And if I give in to your demand - whether it's for the release of political prisoners or a million-dollar ransom or simply a personal gesture on my part \- then I'll weaken my party in the eyes of the government, and I'll weaken this country in the eyes of the world. To top that, I'll also make it a lot easier for *real* terrorists to make even worse demands on us in the future. Part of my job is to protect the United States from *any* kind of attack. And not just today's attacks, either." 

Hm... it never occurred to you to cast *your* demand in such a light. 

"Then there would be a similar ripple effect around the world. Other nations, other governments... all just trying to live in peace. All of them more at risk than ever. That's an enormous influence, affecting countless lives. I have to think about this long and hard." 

That *is* a wide sphere. You've always known who he is - the President of the United States, no less - but for the first time you wonder if others' habit of calling him the leader of the free world isn't an exaggeration after all. 

Of course, you wouldn't be here in the first place if you hadn't believed him to be a very powerful man from the start. That's the whole point of this: the struggle between him and you for the *real* power. A struggle you naturally won the moment you walked into this room... but getting him to admit it is the *real* triumph. 

He's watching you very gravely. "In such a scenario, there's no way I would kneel. Too many people depend upon me to lead them towards a better life, not a more dangerous one. In order to endure, this nation has to be strong." His eyes are bright and hard and earnest. "*We the people* do not surrender to *anyone.*" 

You find that hard to swallow. Even with all these politics, he's still gambling with his *life.* "You'd die for such an abstract ideal? Just like that?" 

"If necessary, yes. However," he adds smoothly, "that's not the only scenario out there. Another big part of my job is compromise. I have to make concessions all the time, and often for people I disagree with. Still, if you're going to lead in a democracy, you have to be willing to bargain." 

"Oh. So you *are* willing to bargain with me after all." 

"Whether I'm willing to deal or not, regardless of with whom, there are times when I just *can't.*" You can't get over how quietly insistent he is on this. "And *then* I have to weigh the results of any refusal. Presidents have died in office before. The government is designed to replace me at once and keep on going. If, however, my death would cause a really serious upheaval, even worse than the ripples of an apparent surrender, that's when surrender would be the wiser decision." 

From his expression now, that's not likely to happen. "But it'd have to be one mother of an upheaval to qualify." 

You're starting to fidget in irritation. "So am I a good enough reason for you, or not?" You do want his answer at *some* point. Time is slipping away... 

"I don't know yet. We aren't done looking at this." He crosses his arms. It makes him look tough, immovable. Unafraid. You don't like that. It needs stomping out - 

Or maybe he's feeling defensive, in need of physical protection. *That* would be good... a fresh sign of his discomfort. That adds to your power. That, you can exploit. 

"If I do kneel, what then? Who else will find out? And what will their opinions be? Will the nation see me as taking the sensible route to avoid a pointless death and national chaos - or will they see me as afraid? And who wants a coward for a leader? No matter who that leader is, he's still just a human - but the obligations of this office don't always allow its incumbent to commit so human an act as to preserve his own life." 

That is not the answer you want. 

He nods sagely. "Now you see why this isn't so simple. You never gave me a clear-cut reason as to why you're here. Is it because you want to debase me? So that you can brag afterwards that you made the President of the United States kneel out of fear?" 

Like you're going to admit to *that* just yet. Especially not after this little speech. 

He's watching you very closely, with a very serious attitude. "Because that's one thing you *will not get.*" 

You listen hard, but there's no indication at all that he might be bluffing. No doubt he has every muscle taut, braced for the worst in case you don't take this position well... and yet, surely he wouldn't make such a statement in such a moment if he didn't truly mean it. 

Boy, is it *ever* a good thing you didn't let out the truth before this. You honestly never thought he would be so hard-nosed on that point. Or on any other point, for that matter - not with his life on the line. And you *do* want him to kneel in the end... more than anything else in the world. Killing him is secondary. *Defeating* him comes first. 

"Here's another problem. Not so long ago, I gave up the office of the Presidency when my daughter was kidnapped. I expect you heard something about that in the news." 

You grunt sarcastically. "It was hard to miss." 

His voice drops a fraction more, and his brows lower to match. "What do you think some people would say if I give in to you to save myself, after I refused to capitulate when it would have saved my own child?" 

Huh. Nothing favorable, that's for sure. 

"So I take it *that's* your answer?" You raise the revolver another notch. If he is dead-set on taking such a stand, then further discussion is pointless... because he's *dead.* 

Again he raises a hand, trying to appease you. "Not my *final* answer just yet. There are still some other angles to examine." 

You're feeling as curious as you are confused. "Like...?" 

He unfolds his arms and props his elbows on the chair armrests, hands clasped in his lap. There's something about this pose that makes you think of... a priest? 

"Well for instance, hypothetically speaking," he says in a curiously bright tone that raises your suspicions, "I can tell you one thing that would have worked in your favor for sure - and that's if someone else had been in this room when you arrived." 

"Nah; you had to be alone. The other would've spilled the beans." 

"Or done something rash. Be that as it may, I would not have risked you hurting anyone else. Even if I wouldn't have been justified in kneeling for my own sake, I'd have knelt to protect *them.* And before you ask, that would not apply solely to a member of my family, either." 

"Really?" This is another aspect you never thought of before. 

"Sure. It's one thing to threaten me. But if you threaten someone else, that's another matter." As though *his* life is way less important. "What reason would I have to believe that you wouldn't kill them, just like that?" He certainly has a point there. "Do you think I'd rather watch *anyone* else die in front of me, so long as *I* survived? Even if you were arrested before you could do anything to *me,* I'd never be able to live with myself." 

You pause to ponder this. "You'd really do it then?" 

He adopts an attitude of imparting wisdom. He can't be *trying* to annoy you, but it still rankles a bit; you don't like to be talked down to. "In a situation like that, capitulation would not be defeat, but a victory in itself. No way would I let any sense of bravado or personal pride get in the way of protecting another person. How can you possibly measure dignity against life? Or politics, either?" 

You ponder some more. "What if you didn't know him?" 

"Irrelevant. I said just a minute ago that I have to set an example. I'm the leader, and the leader cares for those he leads. Whether he knows them personally or not. If there was anyone else in the room, I'd consider that person before myself." 

You shake your head in disbelief. First of all, he outranks just about everyone else in the whole world; and you don't believe for a moment that he doesn't enjoy the privilege. Second, no one could be *that* noble, willing to die or to give everything up for a perfect stranger. 

Still, he's right about this being hypothetical. How he'd *really* behave in a genuine scenario like that, you neither know nor care. "Well, it's moot. There's no one else here." 

"True. You sank your own boat there, pal. Otherwise you'd have had your answer long before this. And we'd have missed out on a very interesting conversation." 

"*Right.* Well, since that doesn't figure, what are you going to do now?" 

"Get a drink. I'm thirsty." He unclasps his hands and straightens in his chair, as though about to lean forward in preparation for standing up. "You want one?" 

Your mouth drops open. "You really *do* think I'm crazy!" 

He makes a calming motion. "Sh! Keep it down! If the boys outside hear an argument, they'll barge in for sure, and that won't end well for either of us. Besides, it would also mean we'd never get to finish this." 

For several seconds you just have to stare at him. He *wants* to finish this? He's got a gun aimed at his head and he doesn't want his bodyguards to rescue him? 

"You really want me to stay? *You're* the one who's crazy." 

He's grinning again. "Not crazy; fascinated! This is a neat little chat we've got going. I'd hate to have it end without reaching a decent conclusion." 

You're blinking, and you hate yourself that you can't stop yourself. He acts like you're a friend who dropped by to share a beer and shoot the breeze, not a stranger who broke through security to shoot *him.* 

"Now I will admit that I could do without that popgun of yours. Then again, I'm surrounded by firearms all the time. For over five years now I've lived with the constant knowledge that at any moment a bullet could be coming my way." He pauses. "And once, it *did.*" You open your mouth to retort, but he doesn't give you the chance. "However, I'll just take this as a necessary condition to our debate tonight, and move on. How about that drink? The glasses are right over there." 

Only after you automatically look in the direction he's pointing, and notice that there are indeed both glasses and decanters on a handsome hutch against the wall, do you realize that you took your eyes off him for at least two seconds - *fatal!* You swing back fast, gun stabbing out to full arm's reach and ready to fire at the first hint of movement - 

He's in exactly the same spot, not shifting an inch. Awaiting your permission for anything he does. 

He does flinch, though. You moved pretty sharply there. How could he know that *your* self-control wouldn't shoot first and check for motion later? 

Do you dare relax a bit? Is what he says true, that he really does want to keep talking? 

He opens his hands, palms up. Again, very cautiously. Even nervously? "No tricks, see? I'd appreciate it if you'd grant me *this* last request." 

You analyze this, still not sure... You know how the evening will end, one way or another, but getting to the finish has turned out to be mighty different from what you planned. 

And that is both unsettling... and intriguing. 

He must've taken your silence for agreement, because he's getting up. Slowly, not wanting to give you the wrong idea... and he seems rather stiff. Of course he's been sitting all this time with every nerve tense. In fact, you'd be willing to bet that he wasn't at all sure before now that he'd ever get the chance to stand again. 

You back up a couple of careful steps. No way are you about to let him get close enough to lunge. Conversely, the further away you are, the less velocity behind the bullet and the better his chances of surviving even a direct hit. Still, five extra feet won't make *that* much of a difference, and you're too good to miss. 

You stay on full alert, but he just steps over to the side and starts arranging glasses. Amazingly, he still manages to *look* calm enough. 

He has to know that you'll fire at the first wrong move. He can't really be planning to while away his last few minutes with a pleasant drink. He *must* be trying to stall, trying to think, trying to come up with *something*... 

"I'm afraid there isn't a great selection here; the hotel suite doesn't include a private bar per se. Now if this were the White House, I could treat you to something fancier. But I think we'll manage. Can you see okay?" He takes care to stand at an angle, so that nothing he does is hidden from sight. 

You're a bit flummoxed, and more than a bit amused. He really believes that this sort of diversion will throw you off? Not a chance in hell. You're even more in control than ever, if this is the best he can come up with. You're perfectly safe to humor him, even as he tries to humor *you.* 

Oh, sure, he has to be wondering what your reaction will be, and trying to anticipate you. Nothing for *you* to worry about; he's far enough away that you have lots of time and space to react, and he's totally unarmed and defenseless... 

Or *is* he? He's paused for a moment, and he's not looking at you - 

The glasses and the decanter are now within reach. Is he wondering if one of them could be a weapon? Maybe longing for the nerve to pick up a nice heavy object and throw it? 

"Don't even *think* about it." That's a clear indication that you're on to him. It's as much as his life's worth not to be so stupid. 

He still doesn't glance your way, and he doesn't say a thing. But his shoulders do slump a bit, which is tantamount to surrender, and proof enough in your eyes that he'd been just about to make *some* kind of move. Then, gradually - even regretfully? - he eases back into his self-appointed role of bartender. 

"Okay, we've covered two big alternatives, and you know what my answer would have been in either case." Endeavoring once more to look nonchalant, he chooses two glasses. "Time to pare things down to the bare essentials. This is just you and me. No one else." 

Here you heartily agree. "That was the idea all along." 

"Then let's start with the basics." He reaches for the ice, never turning his head. Does he trust *you?* 

Not possible; he can't be so dim. No; he's trying to make you *think* he trusts you. He wants to lull you into a false sense of security. He wants to gain his own control over this meeting, and over you. 

Well, it won't work. *You* have the control. He can try all he wants; he won't get it. 

"Now I'm not suicidal by nature... although there are people who would say that only someone with a death wish would run for President in the first place." His shoulders twitch in a brief chuckle. "For all its problems and stresses, I'm enjoying my life and I don't want it to end anytime soon. Dying has never had much appeal, no matter how bad things got. And they've gotten pretty bad on more occasions than one." He opens the vacuum bottle and starts dropping ice cubes into the two glasses. 

"The funny thing is, after a brush with death - or after *playing* Death - you really appreciate what you have. I've got a job that just might kill me, either through the sheer strain or through the actions of someone else..." Did he hesitate a fraction there? Thinking of you, perhaps? "But this job also gives me an amazing chance to do a tremendous amount of good for others." 

He pours two drinks from the decanter with a firm hand. No splashing. "Then there's this little health issue I have. You've heard of that as well, I imagine. It's not pleasant, knowing that a time-bomb in my head just might detonate one of these days, and I can't do a thing about it. Yet, there's always an up-side. It drives me to live as well as I can, every single day, because there may not be many more days when I *can* live well." 

Is he trying to gain your sympathy? Or hoping you'll feel some pity for him? You'd expect that, even though you can't quite hear it in his words... 

He turns, a glass in each hand. "Here you go. I'll put it on this table, in case you change your mind." He slowly approaches an end-table about halfway between him and you and several degrees to the left, sets down one drink, and then backs off. 

It's a genial offer, sure - but if this *was* a friendly get-together, he would have turned and walked back to his chair. Clearly he's not feeling half as casual as he seems: he doesn't dare turn his back on you. 

You're not about to drop your own guard. Knowing that *he* knows you're in charge tingles along your nerves: delight and danger combined. 

He's back on his side of the room, near his armchair. The fact that he's now standing makes this scene feel more like a confrontation, a battle between equals. When he was still sitting, he looked like a supervisor interviewing a much lower-ranked employee. You wonder which image is less appealing. 

One thing: while he was seated, his chair restricted any attempt he might have made to resist. Now he has a lot more mobility. He can't be blind to that, either. 

Something else occurs to you. Whether it's his title or his broad build, or just something about *him,* you never realized before this moment that he's not very tall. Even now, while he's upright, you still have several inches on him. 

Yeah, he's got presence. But you've got the gun. 

He continues the topic of discussion as though it was never interrupted. "Having said all this, I'm not afraid of death itself. It promises to be the most marvelous adventure, beyond anything the human mind can imagine." 

That makes you wonder. "You really think so?" 

"Oh, I'm convinced of it. That doesn't mean, though, that I want to experience it before I must. There's still a lot to be seen and accomplished in *this* world." 

You can't help but ponder a bit about your own life, where it's been and where it's going. 

Did he bring this up so that you *would* think about it? Smart - but useless. 

He takes a sip from his glass, still pretending that nothing is untoward about any of this. You really do want to admire his composure. And yet, you don't doubt for an instant that he's on full alert himself, just waiting for his chance to make a break for it - or something. 

The perfect word for him leaps into your mind - calculating. He's still feeling you out, trying to maneuver you any way he can. You want to laugh at the futility. Like you're going to be taken in by the illusion of a friendly drink. 

"Now, as a human being who's been presented with your ultimatum, my first instinct is for survival. Perfectly natural. My second thought is to refuse to give in to any form of coercion. Personal pride and all that. Which creates a wonderfully complex dilemma." 

You don't entirely agree. "I'd say it's better to live, whatever the case may be." 

"There are historical characters who'd take issue with you there. How about the Southern slaves fleeing their brutal masters? How about the Jews fleeing the Germans? How about our own independence? 'Give me liberty, or give me death'? 

"I'm not trying to take away your liberty!" you insist hotly. 

"In a way, you are. You're demanding that I bow before you, or die. How different is that from demanding that I *work* for you, or die?" 

Then he pauses, growing introspective. "Come to think of it, as President I'm already constrained to do exactly that: work for the people, or else. Although the worst punishment used to be getting voted out of office. In this day and age it's more like, 'Work for the people *and* die'." 

That had to be a verbal shot at you, and you can feel your blood pressure rise. 

He's just standing there, one hand pocketed, the other holding his drink, totally non-threatening. Except... his eyes are sharp again. "Submitting to your demand will be to yield up not just any sense of dignity I may have, but also my right to be seen as a fully equal human being - both in my eyes and in the eyes of the world. It goes against everything I've stood for all my life... and, incidentally, everything this nation is founded upon." 

"I'm not after all that!" 

"I'm having trouble seeing the difference. Work with me here. True, you haven't implied groveling or the like. Besides, a lot of people, if faced with the certainty of being murdered at once if they didn't obey, probably *would* obey, and not many others would think less of them for it." He shrugs expansively. "After all, why throw your life away? You can never get it back. And dying for the sake of pride or machismo would be downright wasteful. Just so that a man could say, or have it carved on his tombstone, that he never surrendered to anyone for anything." 

You sneer. "Yeah, that's a pretty stupid reason to die." 

"Like I said, some would agree with you and others would not. To this person over here, it would be the highest hubris to think that one human being is so unimpeachable, or that the precious gift of life means so little. To that person over there, it would be nothing less than a sacred duty to stand tough at all costs." He swings his glass a few inches left and then right, as a visual aid to match his words. "I read something interesting awhile back: 'The mark of an immature man is one who's willing to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is one who's willing to live humbly for a cause.' Still, there are examples all through history of people who've died rather than surrender to the enemy." 

He lays out both sides of the coin without missing a beat. He actually seems to be enjoying this chance to examine all angles. He must love philosophy something awful, if he's prepared to indulge in it at a time like this. 

"Am I your enemy?" Your gun hand is as steady as a rock. 

His drink hand is just as steady. The ice doesn't rattle against the glass. "I haven't said so at all. You've provided me with a wonderful opportunity for self-examination tonight, and the time to face it properly. How many enemies would do that?" 

Crazy: he *does* enjoy this style of argument. And he sound almost... grateful that you've allowed it. 

"Now I don't have any military experience, but I've learned a lot from being around the Joint Chiefs. There's little sense in fighting to the last man when your foe is going to overrun your position anyway. Whether you die under fire or are hauled off as a prisoner of war, the battle is lost. As a POW, at least you have the chance to escape later on. Bit of a trick to pull that off from the grave, huh?" He takes another sip, thoughtfully. "No, there would have to be a lot more at stake than mere tradition and manly ways before I'd try to hold out to the last gasp." 

You're getting annoyed again. You were willing to put your anger on hold this long, just to see how your totally unique experiment here might work out, but enough is enough. After all, this nonsense isn't going to change anything in the end. "What - your life doesn't qualify as a big enough stake? The alternative is a bullet through the head." 

Somehow he manages not to flinch at your bluntness. "Well argued. The next question is, how do you measure these stakes? I have to ask myself: am I prepared to momentarily sacrifice the moral standards of a lifetime in order to preserve my unique existence? Or am I willing to sacrifice my brief lifespan for those timeless standards? What is the defining element - dignity, pride, arrogance, or just stubbornness? How about duty, or honor? What about faith? Sometimes it's harder to identify your own motives than to figure out someone else's." 

"Is your life worth so little to you?" you challenge. That ought to boil things down. Cut to the chase. 

"Believe me, I'm not treating this puzzle facetiously. From the day I first entered public office, I've had to accept the fact that my politics or just my public image could incite someone to violence. I've been proven right a few times, too," he interjects with a touch of grimness. "Fatalism tends to color a person's perspective of his life's worth." 

"But you said earlier that you'd kneel to protect another person's life. Why wouldn't you do the same to protect your own?" 

"I'm not yet *sure* that I would, or wouldn't. Again, dignity means nothing against life itself. It would be positively wasteful to throw away something so precious. Pride goeth before destruction - literally, in this case. A life is a life; it should never be squandered." 

You exhale. *Finally,* he's come around to common sense. "There! That's the answer you've been looking for." 

He sips again. Is he trying to buy more time? He can't still be undecided! "Perhaps... So what would be the message I leave in the end? That I valued life too much to squander it on a mere ideal? Even though our forefathers died for ideals just like it?" 

Your frown is back. "Who decides what's worth living for, and what isn't?" 

"In this case, I do. It's my life we're talking about. But not just my existence - it's also my sense of self. My personal identity. The conscience and judge that I'll have to answer to." 

"Your conscience?" You're seriously beginning to wonder about this man's grasp of reality. "Why on earth would you risk your life for *that?*" 

"Maybe because I'll have to face it, face my reflection in the mirror, face my image in other people's eyes, every day that I live past this one. Assuming I *do* live past it, of course," he adds calmly, trying hard to look unconcerned about *that* likelihood. You're not fooled, of course. "If I yield up personal duty and honor, even once, even for a moment, will I be able to look myself or anyone else in the eye ever again?" 

"At least you'd be alive to find out," you snipe back. 

"Another point for you." He actually salutes you with his glass. "But it is a colossal decision to make in a relatively short period." 

"You mean you *still* haven't had long enough to work this out?" 

"Hey, this is a unique exercise for me, and a valuable one to boot. Lots of folks have had to decide in one bare instant. Those who choose death, whether it's out of pride or duty or bravado or mere impulse, don't get *any* chance to reconsider. Those who choose life, following their instincts without considering the full ramifications, sometimes regret their hastiness in the end. Whatever happens here tonight, at least I'll know that I've thoroughly looked at everything." 

He sounds like he's convinced that he *will* live through this, that he'll either pacify you or somehow win out against you, so that he'll be *able* to look back and remember. You positively itch with the desire to set him straight on that point... but it's still too soon. 

"Time to inject yet another factor." He looks searchingly at you over the rim of his glass. "Do you have any family?" 

You almost blurt out a reply - but you know better than to let him gain *any* advantage. Give nothing away. "What difference does that make?" 

"It makes a difference to *me.* I have a wife, three children, two grandchildren, a brother... and a cadre of friends who might as well be family." His new grin is soft. "Regardless of what I've accomplished in my life so far, or what I might still do in the future, I could never get through any of it without them. I certainly wouldn't be *here* without them." 

"Aw." You let sarcasm drip in your tone. If he thinks he can soften you up with mush like this... 

He doesn't rise to the bait. "They've also known from the start about the risks I run just by being here. I'm a family man; I have a responsibility to my family that goes beyond any sense of duty to myself. Of course they can all take care of themselves, but that hardly means they *want* to do without me. My wife, for instance." He *really* grins now; it adds a sparkle to his eye. "If I die here tonight, and she finds out later that all I would have had to do to live was obey a simple order to kneel - well, she'll be pretty mad at me." 

You can't help but smile at the merry lilt to his tone. The First Lady is usually all grace and graciousness, but she does have a reputation for an iron core and a fierce temper... It fits that even her husband doesn't like to cross her. 

"Anyway, on to the next topic. Say, are you keeping score?" 

His new words are jarring. Still more to come? "No! I only care about the final verdict." 

"You're going to love *this* subject, then. Do you believe in God?" 

Instantly you feel a flush of primal rage. Through the sudden crimson tint to your vision, you see him draw in a sharp breath as he reads the signs. Betcha he's thinking that he's gone too far at last - and rightly so. 

"Easy. I'm not trying to insult you, or be judgmental." He's gone very still again, and he's speaking very cautiously. "I'm not even going to ask *which* god. I was just wondering if there's any room for a supreme being in your life." 

"And this matters... *why?*" You manage to grind out the question through clenched teeth. 

He hesitates; your gun hand is actually trembling. Should your grip happen to squeeze a fraction too tight... He's standing right in front of a bomb, and he knows it could go off in one more second. You're pretty sure that's a hint of sweat on his forehead at last. 

There's a name for this instinct; you read about it somewhere, recently. All animals have it; even people. Oh, yeah - freeze, or flight. 

He looks like he *really* believes he's on the ragged edge of no return now. And he's right. 

"Well, if you did believe in some sort of deity, you'd understand better what I'm going to say next." 

You fight for self-control. You will *not* give him the satisfaction of seeing you lose it - even if he loses his life immediately afterward. "Say it *fast.*" 

"Sure thing." He's standing like a statue. 

Something suddenly occurs to you. On all the TV broadcasts you've seen where he's speaking to others, whether it's from a podium or not, he's always a very animated guy. He rocks back and forth, looks in all directions, waves his arms, nudges people if they're close enough, points a finger at the crowd or thumps a fist on the wood. But here and now, he doesn't dare do any of that. 

This is good. He's had to squelch his natural impulses, because of you. It's glaring proof of your influence over him. 

That knowledge helps keep the fury at bay. You can afford to indulge him just a bit longer. His attempts to sway you, and his failures, have a certain entertainment value. 

"The problem is, I can't leave faith out. It's just too much a part of me. But you know," he presses quickly, "a lot of what I believe in will work to your advantage." 

"Oh, really?" By this stage, you'll believe that when you see it. 

"You see, normally the only time I *do* kneel is before my God. And the reason I do so is because I'm not ashamed to admit that He is way more powerful than I am." 

Here, strangely, he pauses. What, is he waiting for something...? 

Ah; you see what he's getting at. "And right now *I'm* more powerful than you are." 

"If only because of that gun." 

"And that doesn't count?" 

"Well, without it, one could argue that I'm more powerful than *you.* In fact," and here he grimaces at a memory, "I've had people kneel before me in the past. They're not supposed to, of course. No matter what title I wear, I'm still just as mortal as the next guy. But some people make the mistake of worshipping my office, which means they're inclined to also worship the man who occupies it." 

"Your office is not much help to you just now, is it?" You take a vicious pleasure in reminding him of that. It's also a relief to dodge the *other* matter. 

"Right you are. And yes, I can stand here and readily admit that you possess a genuine power over me. But that's not the same as my kneeling before you. *That* can be seen only as an act of total surrender... in other words, of worship." 

You let out a snort. "Who said anything about worship?" 

"Fortunately, you didn't. If you had, this whole conversation would have ended long ago." He doesn't sound quite as cautious now as he did a moment ago. "I utterly refuse to worship money, political power or violence - or anything else of this world, for that matter." 

"Kind of hard not to respect the violence when it's right in your *face.*" 

He tips his head in agreement. "Oh, I respect it a great deal. But respect doesn't demand that a person commit himself to its ways and let it rule his life. I respect violence by avoiding it... just as I respect politics by trying my best to use political methods properly and fairly. That's not the be-all and end-all of my life." 

He pauses, deliberately, and you know that whatever he says next is important. 

"But my faith - that's the core of my being. It's integrated into my entire way of thinking. I can't help but see everything else in that light." 

"Fine," you growl at him. Anything to move on. "And what does your holier-than-thou tradition tell you about me?" 

You're needling him now, wanting to get him off this rag. 

He doesn't let it bother him. Which, in turn, needles you. 

"Quite a bit, actually. I've never had any desire to be a martyr, thanks. But if you were to kill me because I refused to subject myself to you..." 

You snarl at this obstinacy. "It's not like I'm trying to get you to change religions here!" 

"So much the better. After all, if anyone could imagine that just the physical act of kneeling would change what I believe in my heart, then I *would* question his sanity." 

"You should know better than to suggest *that* by now." You project all the menace into your tone that you can, which is quite a bit. The gun only endorses it. 

Again, he's very still, very sober, almost - what? Solemn, that's the word. "Believe me, I do. I'm not *looking* for martyrdom, not even now. My beliefs don't require such dramatic, overt demonstrations. I don't have to prove those beliefs to you or anyone else." 

You shake your head in fast-growing irritation. "That sounds like the most sensible thing you've said for some time here." 

"You'll welcome this next bit even more. The Catholic Church does canonize martyrs, but it also preaches the sanctity of life. We're talking about the avoidance of senseless death for no real purpose - which certainly includes endorsing personal pride. Life is sacred: one's own included. And right here and now, in this room, not submitting to you, refusing to do the one thing that would save my life, would be tantamount to me committing suicide." 

"Well, check it out. You finally got it right." 

And still he doesn't get riled. It's like this is a quiz, a mere debate, not a life-and-death decision at all. "Yes, there is quite a bit of doctrine on that issue as well. Suicide is anathema to the Church - and so is bowing to other gods. Interesting paradox, isn't it? I could quote Scripture in support of both choices." 

*"Don't."* You're not about to tolerate that nonsense. 

"Okay, okay." He unpockets his free hand and raises an open palm in that same motion of backing off from the point. "I'd just like to mention that I'm reminded of a story about a certain meeting in a rocky wilderness between two leaders of diametrically opposed forces." What is he rambling on about now? This isn't story time. "One suggests to the other that, if he wants to live and not starve - which he's on the verge of doing, by that point - all he has to do is snap his fingers and turn a nearby chunk of stone into bread." 

Okay, you're starting to see red again. "Why are you bringing *that* up?" 

"You mean you don't see the parallel? It had to have been a real temptation. Just a small action. A simple thing. He had the driving human need, and he had the otherworldly power to satisfy that need. It would have preserved his mortal existence, allowing him to get on with his appointed task, and no one else would've had to know." He's eying you askance. "Does any of this sound familiar?" 

Your lip curls. This isn't supposed to be Sunday School, either. "Not really \- especially since he *didn't* do it." There; that proves you're neither uneducated nor stupid. 

"Exactly. He didn't want to abuse his abilities, and he didn't want to give his enemy even the smallest victory. And he didn't want people to follow him around just because he could always feed them for free. He was playing for *much* higher stakes than that." 

"Uh-huh. So you're going to do the same, right?" 

"Oh, I'm tempted, all right." 

Enough of all this theology junk. You start thumbing back the hammer again. *That* should hurry him along. 

It does. "Tempted *both* ways." 

Which makes you hold off another moment. 

"I'm tempted to give in, to preserve my life at any cost, since I will surely lose it if I *don't* give in. That way I'll have endorsed the sanctity of life, and I'll be able to keep supporting both my Church and my country in a productive way." 

He barely pauses for breath. "But I'm also tempted to take the tough stance, to stand on my dignity, my position and my faith. To not compromise what I believe in. Because if I back down once, I'll probably back down again in the future." 

He must be feeling less fear now than before; he's starting to shift and gesture as he speaks. You need to rectify that, pronto. 

"I wouldn't worry about the future so much if I were you. At the rate you're going on here, you won't *have* a future!" You mean every word, even though you keep your voice down. Not just because you know there are watchdogs right outside, too; it's really quite amazing how little a man needs to shout when he has a gun. 

"All right, already." He's got the message, loud and clear. "Just one more angle, okay? Last one, I promise." 

"It *better* be." You wonder how good his promise might be. You're getting to the point where you wish you could fast-forward this movie to the finale \- to the moment where you fire. 

"I'll keep it brief, too." As if he's doing you a great favor. 

Then he puts his drink down on a side table. 

Why? There must be a few swallows left. 

Is he freeing his hands for combat? 

You *definitely* don't like that - 

"The Church has another tenet: about the existence of evil." 

Between suspicion and surprise, you almost sputter at him. "What in God's name -" 

Only after the phrase is out of your mouth do you realize you've given him a golden opening for a wisecrack - 

"Do you think I'm evil?" he asks quietly. There is no sarcasm in his attitude at all. "Is that why you're threatening to kill me?" 

"That is *not* the reason! But I bet you think *I'm* evil!" Yeah, he probably does - and yet he *still* doesn't know what will happen at the end. So much for this all-seeing, all-knowing mumbo-jumbo. 

"Truth be known, I don't think you are." He's still speaking in a low tone, like he's testing each word before he actually says it. His expression is somber, and very level. "What I want to know, friend, is whether you think I'm so bad, so wrong, that you feel compelled to rid the world of me." 

*What* is he getting at? And you're no friend of his! "I don't think you're the devil, if that's what you mean -" 

"I'm very glad to hear *that.* Still, if you did, I could better understand your reason for being here tonight." His voice rises a fraction, not loud, yet firmer than ever. It seems to fill this room. "Evil is your *real* enemy. You shouldn't hate the person who commits evil, but by all means fight the evil within them. To compromise with evil, even with the noblest intentions, is to surrender to evil. To bow to evil for *personal* gain is to show all the world that evil has defeated you." 

Reluctantly, you nod. This is all sensible advice. Of course none of it applies to you, here, even though he seems to think it does... 

"Now some would argue, what if compromise would prevent further evil? What if a greater good might be served? Is it wrong to never yield ground, to blindly refuse all options, to never even consider a truce? Not even to save a life? My counter is, where do you draw the line? Where do you say, No more? And only *you* can draw that line in your own heart." 

Okay, you're getting a bit lost here... 

He pauses, and you suddenly guess that he's about to deliver the punch-line. He's standing tall, feet planted, and even though he's pocketed both hands you can't help but think of a cowboy ready to reach for his guns. He's up to something. You know it. 

"Only evil would threaten to take a life." 

That was like a slap across the face. 

"So you *do* think I'm evil." You keep it down, but if he can't see *this* rage building - 

"I want you to understand that our situation tonight has gone beyond your own motive." Oh, he's utterly serious now. His eyes never leave yours. "It's not my life that's the prize here, but a principle of faith. The principle that good *will* triumph over evil in the end. Evil has demanded submission, and did not receive it." 

You're going to have even less hesitation killing than you ever thought. "And if evil blows your brains all over this room, you think it *still* loses? That's a pretty conclusive victory in *my* books." 

"It's not a victory at all." He sounds like he honestly believes that. "Evil can threaten, evil can scare, evil can *kill,* but evil can still be defeated. My choice was made a long time ago - to fight it." 

You guffaw. You can't help it; this is just too crazy to contemplate. You've even got a rebuttal for him. "You know, if Good keeps letting itself get offed on points of principle that don't actually accomplish anything, except maybe to say it stood by those principles, then evil's gonna have things pretty easy." There; you shot down *that* wacko idea in a hurry. Sure, he's got a doctorate and whatever other titles to his name, but you can hold your own any day. You're still smarter that him. You have the *real* power. 

"Evil's been trying to do nothing else since the start of our recorded history," he counters, again in that soft and strangely immovable tone. "It's tried to corrupt religious groups from within. It's tried to water down holy guidelines into ineffective rules and regulations. It's even tried to twist dogma into senseless obedience to those same rules. Sometimes it wins for a short while, but never for long. Human faith always sees through it in the end." 

How dare he stand there and lecture you! "Oh, yeah? It didn't see through *me!*" 

"You think not?" His brows are lowered, casting his eyes into shadow. "Maybe it's time to talk about the *real* reason you're here." 

"*What* reason?" You barely remember not to yell at him. 

"The power rush." 

Three simple words, but they hit home. 

"You're not after my political office, and you're not after me personally." His voice is flat, rhyming off one remorseless point after another. "You're here because you want to beat the President. You want to take on the highest position around on a one-to-one basis. You want to prove that even the most powerful individual in the world will still cower under a direct threat to his own life. You might not have even thought of this caper, and you sure would have felt it to be far less worthwhile, if you couldn't have tried it with me. This has been about control all along. Nothing else. You've felt justified in threatening me, because with no one else could you have so well indulged in your sense of personal and direct control. My office *personifies* control. You couldn't think of anyone else so complex, so hard to reach, or who would have less reason to kneel to anyone." 

*How* did he figure that out? 

No sense in denying it any longer. "Smart guy. But you're not as brave as you're trying to pretend. Don't think you can fool *me!*" 

Whoa - his eyes are *snapping* now. "There's a crucial difference between courage and fearlessness. Only fools have no fear at all. Fear can be a very healthy warning at times that we're in over our heads. Courage is the way you *handle* fear. I don't think any worse of a person being afraid - or even breaking. Everyone has a breaking point. It's how they cope with the fear that matters." 

You've just hit *your* breaking point. After you let him talk, gave him every fair chance - no matter how hopeless - to win... *This* is how he repays you? With insults? 

"Okay, that's *it.* See if your courage and your God will protect you from *this!*" You reach for the hammer again. 

He doesn't cringe one bit. His eyes are like icy shards. "I have no doubt He will, one way or another. You want my final response to your original demand? Here it is." 

And just like that - he kneels. Not hurriedly, not with any great flare; just a smooth and deliberate descent to one knee. 

You have to gape at him. After all this time... all these arguments, all those politics, all that theology about why he shouldn't... this is *it?* He ups and gives in to you, in just a couple of seconds? 

Talk about anticlimactic. You feel positively let down. 

Which only makes you angrier. 

He folds both hands on his upper thigh and looks up at you. Even now he acts astonishingly calm. There is definitely dignity here... and something else... 

Almost a kind of - serenity? 

He really *isn't* afraid to die. You didn't believe him before... but you do now. 

"See? It's just a physical motion. One more posture that the body can assume. Only I can decide what it truly means to me - which is the crux of this whole issue. It can be an act of surrender, or of supplication... or of service." He actually shrugs, as though all of this were totally self-explanatory. "And I am supposed to be the servant of the people. *Your* servant. What could be more appropriate?" 

Damn him - not only has he ruined your supreme moment of victory, but now he's even justifying it as being of benefit to *you?* 

"Of course," he continues just as frankly, "the impressions of others can be very important as well. But then, anyone arriving after the fact won't be able to tell whether I've died on my knees or on my feet." He hesitates - but not from any emotion. This is no less purposeful; this is for impact. "And a good thing, because no matter what reason I might have for this action... it won't save my life anyway. Will it?" 

*He knows.* He's known, since when you can't imagine, that you were planning to kill him all along. 

Then why would he kneel at all? 

The only conceivable reason is because he's trying to delay the inevitable, trying to buy just a bit more time, any way he can. 

Time for *what?* 

He's still looking at you. The tension remains... but no matter how hard you stare, you can't pick out anything that really resembles *fear.* 

He obeyed you... yet there's still something wrong with the *way* he obeyed. This action was supposed to crush his spirit - and it didn't. This action... doesn't matter after all. 

Then, just as deliberately, he turns his head to one side. As though to say that, even though he's kneeling and you're drawing a bead on him, you are of no consequence at all. 

That is *infuriating.* He should have the decency to look you in the eye when you're about to plant a bullet between *his* eyes! 

Or - is he looking at something specific? 

You follow his line of sight, towards the window. *What* could he possibly be looking at? Something out in the night? 

Is there some*one* out there - someone that knows you're here, and *why* you're here? A human spider that's climbed up the wall, about to smash in and stop you? 

You don't see anything but the darkness - 

Then your vision refocuses. Not out the window, but *on* the window. 

Your reflection. And his. You can clearly see his face. 

And if you can see *his* face - then he can see yours - 

WHAM! 

The very next thing you know, you're flat on your back on the carpet. Head spinning. Spine aching. Breath gasping. 

*Your gun is gone.* 

And he's standing over you, looking down at you. 

Your gun is in his hand. Not pointing at you, but utterly out of your reach. 

Suddenly, you're not in control anymore. *He* is. 

CRASH! 

The very *next* instant, dark suits are everywhere. Pinning you down. Dragging you up. Handcuffing your wrists. 

"Don't hurt him." 

*He* said that. 

Your head spins even faster. What happened? 

Oh... right. You lost. 

You vaguely see him hand your gun to one of the dark suits. It isn't even smoking. He took it away from you before you could react at all. 

You didn't beat him. He beat *you.* 

He *beat* you... 

"Mr. President -" 

"Relax; I'm fine. And he's unbalanced. He needs treatment, not jail time." 

Slowly, you clear some of the cobwebs from your brain and start to piece everything together. When he saw from your reflection that you'd looked away from him, he charged. He must've used his kneeling position like a runner off the mark. He'd planned to do that that from the start. 

And his charge also alerted the others. That door is actually hanging off one hinge. 

"Well done, Mr. President." 

"Hey, desperate strokes for desperate folks." 

He wasn't really kneeling before you at all. He'd *tricked* you. 

You lost the control. In fact, it's not only that you *have* lost, but you *are* lost. Completely, irrevocably, lost. 

*How* could it happen? It was supposed to be *your* triumph! 

"Just give me one more moment with him, please." 

He wants a moment with *you?* *Why?* 

Oh... easy enough to guess. Here is his chance to repay you. To gloat. 

There - the anger is back, hot and leaping. He ruined your whole plan. He *robbed* you of your power! This once-in-a-lifetime chance, and he took it from you! 

He comes right over, so that you can see him easily. 

"Are you okay, fella? Sorry I rammed into you so hard. It's been awhile since I played football." 

You're so mad you can't say a thing. He's totally in control, of everything. Including you. 

He's *alive.* 

"I just want to thank you." 

The anger jerks to a stop. He wants to *thank* you? What on earth for? 

"I'm sure I haven't had such a fascinating conversation in years. A philosophical debate like ours is right up my alley. It might have been in less than idyllic circumstances, but just the same I really am grateful to you for the opportunity. I think I learned something new about myself in the process." 

You shake your head in disbelief, even after all your talk with him tonight. Only this man could see an up-side to being forced to argue for his life. 

"I also want you to know one more thing. When we spoke earlier about what I would do to defend any other person in the room?" He's looking closely at you, searching for comprehension. "Well, there *was* another person in the room." 

There was? 

There *couldn't* have been. You would've known. 

He said he'd kneel to protect the life of another... 

His smile... is gentle. "You." 

********** 


End file.
